The Mafia Boss Whispered He’d Show His Virgin Bride How Babies Were Made, but What He Did Next Changed Everything She Feared About Him

The drive back to Westchester was a blur of flashing streetlights and swirling snow. Isabella’s mind was a battlefield.

If she told Matteo about Marco, Matteo’s duty as Don would require him to eliminate the threat. Marco would die. Her family’s name would be dragged through the mud, and her father’s heart would likely give out from the shock.

If she stayed silent and tried to handle Marco herself, she would be betraying Matteo. She would be playing the exact same deceitful games that had caused the war in the first place.

When she arrived at the estate, the snow was falling heavily, blanketing the grounds in a thick coat of white. She rushed inside, throwing off her coat, her hands shaking as she walked toward Matteo’s private study on the second floor.

She pushed open the heavy oak door without knocking.

Matteo was sitting behind his wide glass desk, illuminated by the warm light of a desk lamp. He was reviewing security feeds from the Jersey shipping yards. He looked up, surprised by her abrupt entry.

"Isabella? What's wrong? You're pale."

She stood in front of his desk, her chest heaving, the weight of the secret pressing down on her lungs like lead.

"I need you to promise me something," she pleaded, her voice breaking.

Matteo’s expression changed instantly. He set his pen down, his eyes turning serious. He stood up and walked around the desk, stopping a foot away from her. "What happened in Brooklyn?"

"Promise me, Matteo," she insisted, tears welling in her eyes. "Promise me you won't kill him."

Matteo’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Kill who? Isabella, talk to me."

"Marco," she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "He's... he's talking to the Russians. They are blackmailing him with old documents about my father. He's supposed to give them the Jersey transport routes tonight."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Isabella watched as the warmth in Matteo’s eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating mask of the Don. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with a dangerous, violent tension.

"How long have you known this?" he asked, his voice disturbingly calm.

"I found out an hour ago," she begged, reaching out to grasp his forearms. His muscles were rock hard, rigid with fury. "I came straight to you! I didn't hide it! Matteo, please... he's foolish, he's scared, he's an idiot, but he's my brother. If you kill him, my father will die, and... and I don't know if I can look at you the same way again."

Matteo stood motionless. He looked down at her small hands gripping his arms, then up into her desperate, tear-filled eyes.

"He is conspiring with our enemies, Isabella," Matteo said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "If my capos find out I spared a traitor because he is my brother-in-law, my authority is destroyed. The other families will see me as weak."

"Then don't let them find out!" she pleaded, tightening her grip. "Handle it yourself! Break him, beat him, send him away like you did with that boy when you were eighteen! But don't murder him!"

Matteo stared at her, stunned by her knowledge of his past. "Who told you about that?"

"Rosa," she admitted softly. "She told me you were a man who knew the difference between cruelty and necessity. Show me that man now, Matteo. Please."

Matteo closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath. The internal war raged inside him—the strict, unforgiving code of the mafia pulling him one way, and the desperate plea of the woman he had grown to love pulling him the other.

When he opened his eyes, the icy glare had softened just a fraction.

"Where is the exchange happening?" he asked.

"The abandoned warehouse at Pier 17," she replied quickly. "Tonight at midnight."

Matteo looked at the clock on his wall. It was ten thirty.

He reached up, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her forehead against his chest. "Stay here," he ordered quietly. "Do not leave this house."

"Matteo—"